“Why do you say . . . oh. Because the poison is too diluted to taste. We might not even know we were taking it.”

“And because the tea and the candy had to come from different sources, right? Whoever is doing this must have their hands in everything. Like supply routes. Or maybe they have total kitchen access.”

I sit on Bolivar’s writing stool to give my sore rib a break. “Not necessarily. Maybe there’s a merchant in the city who sells both tea and tamarind candy in their market stall. Maybe that’s where Bolivar got it. We can make some inquiries.”

“But if not . . .”

“If not, then you’re right. Bolivar probably got both the tea and the candy right here in the barracks.”

Iván starts to pace, and it’s almost comical the way his long legs force him to turn so often. I’m content to watch him because for some reason his pacing makes the warmth of home fill my chest. Then I realize why: Elisa paces like this, back and forth, staring at the floor, whenever she’s mulling a tricky problem.

I miss her. And tiny Ximena. And especially Hector.

Iván comes to a sudden halt, and he spins around to face me. “Where does tamarind come from?”

“Down south. The jungles of Selvarica.”

“And duerma leaf tea?”

“East beyond the great sands. It grows in the desert foothills, in shady spots. It’s one of Basajuan’s biggest exports.”

He blinks. “You knew all that off the top of your head.”

“I had royal tutors for eight years,” I point out.

“All right, Red of the royal education, tell me what all this means.”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“If tamarind and duerma leaf tea come from two of the most distant corners of our empire . . .”

“Oh. You’re saying there’s no way they were poisoned at the source.”

“Exactly. They were poisoned after they arrived here in Brisadulce.”

I consider this. “I’m not sure that tells us anything we didn’t already suspect.”

“It tells us that we need to find out where—”

A key rattles in the lock.

I throw myself to the floor and slide under the bed. Iván follows my lead, making a loud clunk that I’m certain can be heard all the way to the Wallows.

The door creaks open. Boot steps approach.

There’s barely enough room under this bed; I must turn my head sideways to keep it from brushing the slats. My breath fogs the wood plank floor. My injured rib is a dagger in my side.

Iván is taut in the space beside me, his shoulder mashed against mine. His knees poke my thighs; they are slightly bent to prevent his feet from sticking out from under the bed.

The stool scrapes the floor as it’s whisked aside. The writing-desk drawer slides open. Someone rustles through the pile of parchment, rummages through quills and ink. The boots move toward the shelves.

I hardly dare breathe as I stare at the boots. They’re made of hard leather and tanned a rich brown-red; standard issue Royal Guard. Who could it be? Someone with very large feet and a slight inward pronation. Maybe it’s Bolivar himself, recovered and returned home. But no, items from the shelf are being tossed onto the bed. The flap of a cloak suddenly drapes over the side and drags on the floor, obscuring my view of the boots.